(Damien POV)
The dungeon beneath Blackspire smelled of wet iron and despair, the kind that had soaked into the stone centuries ago and never quite dried. Torchlight crawled across the walls like dying insects, barely touching the prisoner chained to the far pillar. One of my own—once. A loyalist who'd decided loyalty had limits when the villages started burning for sport rather than strategy.
He was already bleeding from the mouth when I walked in. Vesper had softened him up. Efficient. Impersonal. She'd left without a word, but her eyes had lingered on me longer than necessary. I ignored it.
I drew the curved dagger from my belt—slow, deliberate. The blade caught the torchlight and threw it back in a thin, mocking line across his face.
"You thought you could run," I said. Voice low. Almost conversational. "Thought you could take half my scouts with you and slip into the neutral clans. Tell them stories. Make them believe I'm the monster they already fear."
